


A Taste of Insanity

by EmSheshan



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Acid, Angst, Bad-Trip, Drug Use, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, LSD, Mild Gore, One Shot, Recreational Drug Use, Time Travel, Vomiting, Writing Party: Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/pseuds/EmSheshan
Summary: "If God put a way to attain complete enlightenment, then it's our job to go out and find it.""What does that mean?""It means give me a tab," George said.---George goes on a trip, to somewhere very, very distant.
Relationships: George Harrison/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	A Taste of Insanity

"If God put a way to attain complete enlightenment, then it's our job to go out and find it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means give me a tab," George said. 

Paul grimaced with his brows knitted together, while John smirked next to him.

"Alright—" 

"No!" Paul shouted. "We don't— you don't, you shouldn’t take that," he stuttered, the words spilling out messily. "George isn't in the best state right now," he whispered to John, the older man squinting in return. True, George was far from baseline but he wasn’t wrecked. 

He didn't mean to, of course, it just happened. Insomnia struck last night, and when he finally fell asleep, he immediately had to wake up for a meeting. He ended up missing breakfast, (or lunch), overcompensating with too much coffee and adrenaline. The meeting itself had gone by well, but then they pulled out champagne and George was thirsty.

So by the time he got back to his house, he was a little shaky. Then, John had the great idea of smoking a joint to pass the time. So now he was a little drunk, a little stoned, and ravenous. Acid sounded like a wonderful idea.

"Ever since you two have been taking that, you've been complete lunatics," Paul grumbled, although George barely heard him. He was more focused on how hungry he was, in all honesty. Lately, he found himself ignoring Paul a lot.

"You're only saying that 'cause you've never tried it," John hummed. He reached into his breast pocket, procuring a small pouch with more miniscule contents. He pulled out a tab, one orange square, with hints of blue peppered in. "For me  _ best _ mate," he cooed, saying the words so sickly-sweet that Paul almost gagged.

"This isn't a good idea," Paul warned, but George didn't care about what he had to say. He was just jealous that he couldn't be a part of the experience. He slipped in the tiny scrap of colorful paper and leaned back into his seat. All he had to do was wait.

"If you're not gonna join us," George drawled, "then you can make yourself useful and put on some tea."

Paul gave a sharp exhale from his nose, followed by the clicking of his boots against the tiled floor.

He felt a sense of pride watching Paul leave, like a military commander forcing his enemy to retreat. He decided he rather enjoyed the feeling.

John began discussing something, weather, politics, sports, something trivial and meaningless. He was just waiting for the sensation of his mind to go into overdrive, just running rampant with its thoughts. That's all it did, it just made you think. The hallucinations were just a neat side effect.

George realized it kicked in as soon as he cast a glance at the carpet and saw it pulsate as if it was breathing. The parallel and perpendicular lines of the construction of his house began to warble and bend, and the light flowing through the windows began to refract into prismatic rainbows.

It hit a lot faster than he expected— and there was a strange tightness to his chest.

"I'm back," Paul announced, carrying in a tray of tea cups. George hadn't heard the kettle go off, nor did want the hot drink anymore. He felt sweaty all of a sudden and moved to take his jacket off—

Oh. He was just in a pair of pants and a shirt. It  _ was  _ summer after all, so he wasn't too concerned… until he remembered it was actually November. He wasn’t usually this distracted, but it was getting difficult to concentrate on the world around him, especially with how hie eyesight began to alter more and more.

Fresh air… he needed to open a window. George stood up, and then immediately lost his balance and stumbled into the table, the same one Paul had placed the tea on. George had thrown his hands out to stabilize himself and ended up flinging two of the teacups to the floor.

"Jesus Christ," a voice said before lightly chuckling, most likely John. He couldn’t tell for certain. His periphery had been turned into a kaleidoscopic view, one that gave everything in his sight ornate geometric carvings.

George wanted to say  _ "I'm sorry,"  _ and also wanted to call out " _ I need some fresh air. _ " Instead of either, he muddled his words into, "I'm fresh air," and rose from the coffee table to open the window pouring out rainbow light. 

A hand hit the windowsill and slipped off due to how sweaty it was. 

A pain spiked at the front of George's skull and if it weren't for Paul who had caught him, he would have collapsed to the floor.

The entire world lurched as Paul spoke to George. His vision was melting and he couldn't see him but he could hear him.

“ _ Are you okay? George? _ ”

George tried to reply, but he let out a gross hissing noise instead. His tongue laid in his mouth like lead. 

"I told you!" Paul hissed, "I told you this was a bad idea!"

"Shut the fuck up!" John shouted back, it echoing in George's head. It felt like someone had drilled holes in his eyes to let his brains flow out like juice. His eyes felt wet, but he had no way of knowing if it was sweat or tears. Or, more ominously, blood.

"Hey, Geo, look at me—" Paul called out to him. George tried, he really did, but when he tried to look, all he saw were suspended crystals in the air, roaring with static. They kept sliding and shifting until they looked like distorted faces and gazing eyes. One of them grew fingers and hands and reached out to George—

He wrenched his eyes shut, deciding he had seen enough, but under his eyelids was a barrage of light, a neon war in the darkness. 

He had forgotten; you can't turn it off.

"The hell did you give him?"

"I didn't know the fucker laced it with some shit!"

"This is your fault!"

"Shut up!"

Then, clearly, "Stop screaming, Geo!" 

He didn't know he was wailing. Everything was getting dark, worms and snakes writhing across his field of view.

His limbs were heavy, but his head felt too light. It if weren't for his neck, it would have floated off. His hands and fingers and feet and toes stung, neurons firing for an invisible pain. The whole world was spinning, but Paul had helped him lay down. Even if he was on the couch, his body was falling, sinking into an abyss.

Down and down and down and down…

There was a clamp on his skull that was crushing him, easier after all of his brains had drained out. It was nothing more than a hollow shell. The pressure kept increasing, increasing— and the wriggling snakes grew longer and multiplied, and they started slithering into George’s glass-like eyes, inside him, filling him up and down and left and right—

And then the clamp snapped, and crushed George's head.

He gasped for air, but his head was smashed in. He had no mouth or nose anymore and couldn't breathe, and the lights were so bright. Flashing, blinking, blindingly brilliant lights everywhere he turned. It was like someone had jammed nine televisions into his eyeballs and made him watch static.

He felt upside down, but when he reached out with his dead limbs, he felt soft fuzzy… carpeting. Carpets are soft and fuzzy and on the floor. He was on the floor.

Some people spoke and shouted, but George couldn't understand what it was. Must have been another language. Was he dead? Did the angels talk in German and not English? His German wasn't very good at all.

His flesh was evaporating, the burning sensation overtaking him. Then, there was a sharp kick to his stomach.

He lurched.

There was another kick.

"Stop kicking," George pleaded, words slurring together like someone took a blender to his mouth.

"No one's kicking you," someone said.

George whimpered.

"Dhani?" the voice asked again.

"My name's not Danny—" George moaned. He tried to concentrate on the stranger's shoes, a pair of black dress shoes… no, tennis shoes, with laces.

He tried to reach out, to clutch them, to ground him.

And then he threw up all over the stranger's shoes before blacking out.

* * *

It was official; he had died.

George woke up to a dull throb of pain. It was as if someone had gotten thousands of drills and stuffed them inside of his veins and let them run. Now, he was exhausted and spent, wanting nothing more than to slip back into unconsciousness. That is, if his head didn't ache so much. He looked around, and then felt his stomach drop.

He had no idea where he was.

The room was dark, curtains drawn, with only slivers of light coming through. He was grateful for the darkness; it made his headache lessen. No, he was more concerned at the fact that he was in a stranger's house. 

The room itself was painted a dull beige color, with large, dark brown pieces of furniture, including a bookshelf, two bedside tables, and a dresser with a mirror that teached to the ceiling. Looking at the table, he noticed the alarm clock that read 8:36 in bright red lights. There was a photograph of an old man and several other people, most likely his children.

George spent several minutes waiting for his churning stomach to settle before daring to move. He had no idea what just happened to him. He was with John, took LSD, and then everything went to shit. Whatever he had taken, it wasn't what he thought it was. Something had gone wrong in the chem labs, and now he just needed a ride home.

If he could; there was a part of his mind that still thought he had died.

He stood up, and immediately grew lightheaded, hovering over the bed as he waited for it to pass. He squinted in the dark and saw the same repeating refractions that he had before passing out.

So he was still a little high, no big deal. It didn't hurt, and he felt in control of his mind. The body was a different story, however. It was weak, emancipated, and when George climbed out from under the covers, he shivered. He was wearing different clothes, a t-shirt that read "ROCK against CANCER," as he saw in the mirror. On his lower half was a pair of ill-fitting plaid pajama pants, too large for George's thin hips. The mundane clothing told him that this  _ probably  _ wasn’t the afterlife.

_ I can't stay here forever,  _ George thought, pulling a quilt off of the bed. He was cold, his clothes were too big, and he wanted to feel some kind of protection in this stranger's house.

He felt like he was in a dream, his mind disconnected from his body.

Creeping out of the room, George found himself in a hallway, one with more photographs on the wall. They were all of the same old man, but what struck George was the quality. They were crisp, and full of vibrant colors. As George passed the framed photos, he found himself in a living-room, blinds still drawn. There were several grey boxes stacked on a short shelf, each one giving off a small light. On top was a large flat object, one that George could only assume was a television, except this one was colossal in size and as thin as a piece of paper.

Music was playing, full of sounds George had never heard before. It had a thumping bass and drumbeat, one that was as flawless as it was repetitive. Even the voice singing it sounded strange and unnatural. 

With a cold sweat, George began to fear he was abducted by aliens and that they scanned his brain to make an approximation of a human house. Everything was clean and sterile, sleek and strange. Very… impersonal, George would say. Back at his house, he and Pattie had decorated with Art Nouveau pieces, ones with beautiful ornate flowers and plants carved into them. Here, it was all square and monochrome.

The only signs of life were the potted plants in the corners, although they turned out to be fake upon closer inspection. He kept moving forward, blanket dragging across the floor, until he reached the source of the music, the kitchen. 

The old man from the photographs was there, his back turned to George, stirring something in a large pot. The music was blaring.

"Excuse me," George whispered, but the man didn't react.

"Excuse me," he repeated, voice loud and firm. The man startled, then whipped around. His hair was grey and faded but his eyes were a pleasant shade of hazel.

"Oh, you're up," the man said, fidgeting with the wooden spoon in his hands. "How're you feeling?" His speech had a dip to it, and his accent was scouse, not as pronounced as George's.

"I'm alright," George said, leaving out how he was still a little high or how much his head hurt or how weak he felt.

"That's good," the man said. "That's good. I'm, uh, making dinner right now." He tried to turn his attention back to the bubbling pot, but his eyes refused to leave George. In all honesty, he seemed to be the more nervous of the two. Either he was afraid of George… or a massive fan.

"Smells nice," George said, even if he could barely smell right now. "Can you… tell me what happened?" 

"Uh, yeah, I can," the man said. "You sort of showed up out of nowhere, shaking, then you blacked out. Do you remember anything?"

"I remember throwing up on someone's shoes," George said, and then walked forward into the kitchen. He went around the counter island and stared at the man's socks. "I'm guessing yours?"

"Don't remind me," the man mumbled. 

George examined the kitchen. It was styled like the rest of the house, but there was no record player in sight, nor radios. He eventually figured out that the music was coming from a tiny black cylinder on the counter. George picked it up—

No wires nor knobs nor buttons nor switches. It was a magic black can that was producing some of the crispest sounds he had ever heard. Was this man some kind of technological genius? This radio-speaker, the weird boxes and devices, the little lights everywhere—

"Who are you?" George asked. The man froze, and slowly turned around.

"You don't… recognize me? At all?"

George scanned his face, the wrinkles, the saggy jowls, the smallish nose, and the droopy eyes. It was hard with his vision still distorted.

"Are you Paul's… grandfather?" he guessed.

The man chuckled.

"George… I am Paul."

George tried to clear his vision, blinking and shaking his head, trying to focus on the man.

He looked a little like Paul, and sounded a little like Paul, but he was…

"You're so  _ old, _ " George said, words spilling undignified from his lips.

"Well, I looked young fifty years ago." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small rectangle and poked at it. The music stopped.

"Fifty… years."

"Yeah," Paul said. "It's been a while."

George wasn't thinking straight, and reached out to touch Paul's cheek. It felt like a cheek.

The quilt fell off of George's shoulders.

He was fifty years in the future.

He was…

“Oh my god,” he said.

The future…

George didn't realize he had almost collapsed. Paul was holding him, guiding him to one on the chairs at the counter.

"Stay with me," Paul kept repeating, but George couldn't hear him. His mind was in another place…

Another time.

He flinched, recoiled, and began to curl up into a fetal position on the seat. Paul draped the quilt over him when he began to shiver.

George didn't trust himself to think, let alone speak. Paul could only pat his shoulder and resumed his cooking. He was as sensitive and caring as he was before George had arrived here.

"Do you want me to put on some music?" he quietly asked.

"Is that what you called it?" George weakly replied. At least his wit was still intact.

Paul stared at him for a moment and softly chuckled before resuming his work. He pulled out two bowls and began to scoop something out of the pot. It was chili, George slowly recognized, but with more beans in place of meat. Even though he was so weak he couldn't hold the spoon properly, he shovelled it in. When was the last time he ate?

Oh, right, fifty years ago.

His frantic eating was the only sound in the kitchen, aside from the mechanical  _ whrrrr  _ of the air conditioning, and Paul's own, quitter eating.

George finished before Paul was even halfway through. He felt better for it, that gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach disappearing. He had half a mind to lick the bowl clean, but instead let his spoon clatter against the bottom of the bowl.

"Thanks," George said. His body had stopped shivering, and his head didn't feel like it was going to fall off. He had gotten his breathing under control. Even so, Paul still looked dreadfully uneasy.

"What, ah..." Paul said, putting his bowl down. "What year did you come from?"

" '66," George said. "I have a question for you now."

"Go ahead."

He wanted to ask,  _ Am I dead now?  _ but held his tongue. George realized he didn’t need to ask that. Not only would it dredge up bad memories, he already knew the answer. From the way Paul kept gazing at him, trying to fight the urge to bite at his nails… Paul was nervous. He was happy, but nervous.

"Are there flying cars?" he asked instead.

"Oh, not yet," Paul said, relieved at the mundane question.

"Are The Beatles still popular?"

"A little," Paul said. "I'm sorry, I just- I don't want to talk about the future with you, y'know? 'Cause there are some things that happen and I don't want them to change."

"Well, if it was destiny, then it will happen, regardless of what I do. And if it doesn't happen, then it wasn't meant to be," George said.

"Right," Paul whispered. He trembled for a moment. "It's been so long since I've seen you like this— I forgot what you were like." He let out a small laugh. "God, George, I haven't seen you in so long."

"Don't tell me I die before I'm thirty," George muttered.

"No!" Paul shouted. "No, it's just— we stopped being friends a long time ago. I missed that… I missed you."

To think, the same Paul who nagged at him that day about his reckless drug-taking was now mourning the loss of his friendship with George.

"Well, I'm here now," George said, and at that, Paul seemed to break, his shoulders shaking. He rose up and crossed over to George, before freezing. His arms were partially raised.

George fought the urge to scoff at the way Paul stopped. He wanted a hug, but couldn't outright ask for it. 

George got out of his chair and embraced Paul.

"You're still the same," George said. "The same asshole from fifty years ago."

"Oh, fuck you," Paul murmured, but there was no vitriol. They were laughing, smiling.

It felt like a dream, and George slowly found himself drifting. His mind was still filled with a blazing static.

"Do you know how you got here?" Paul asked.

"Took some acid with John," George said. "Then everything went dark."

"So no clue at all, then."

"Yeah," George hummed. "Can I lay down? My head is killing me." Even with the warm dinner and the heavy quilt, he still felt numb and cold in his extremities. 

"Do you want me to put on some tea?" he asked, an echo of the past. This felt familiar…

"I'd appreciate it," George said, going to the living room and bundling up. 

Paul's reluctance to share information about the future told George that it wasn't the brightest fate that laid waiting for him. Most surprisingly, George found that he didn't mind at all. It was going to happen no matter what, so knowing about it wouldn’t change anything. It would be for the best, not having to anticipate or fear the future. There would be no sword dangling over his head.

"I'm back," Paul said, with two mugs. The amount of time that passed was microscopic.

"Do they have instant tea machines now?"

"No, not really. There's instant coffee, though."

George hummed, falling back into silence. Exhaustion was settling in.

"Are you alright? You're looking pale—"

"I'm just knackered," George muttered. Lights were dashing across his eyes. He laid down on the couch, letting his eyes close.

"Hey Paul?" he asked. "Thanks for taking care of me."

"You're welcome," Paul said. He said something after that, but George was already asleep, his brain turning off.

Right before he passed out, George thought about Paul. He felt warm and fuzzy, but different from his drug-induced state of mind. It was fondness, love, that he was feeling.

He was about to say that he felt peaceful, but he began to ache in his sleep. His muscles spasmed, his teeth clenched. His skin felt like it was crystalizing.

A terrible roar sounded in his head, and George's subconscious prepared for the worst.

* * *

"Oi, wake up!" someone shouted in his ear.

"He's dead, he's dead—"

"No he's not; he's breathing!"

"Shh! He's waking up—"

"George!"

When he opened his eyes, George was face to face with a distraught John Lennon.

"Christ, are you okay?" he asked, voice trembling. He looked to be on the verge of tears, as was Paul. 

George scanned the bright room. It was his house, with the tea spilled onto the floor, the window shattered, and his clothes ripped off. He didn't remember destroying the window or his shirt…

"I'm here," George said. He had no clue if he was okay or not.

"You fuckin' scared the shit out of me," John spat. "We thought you were dead!"

"I might have died for a moment," George said, causing John to slap his arm. 

"Don't say shit like that," he muttered, standing up. "I'm gonna get a mop."

John left, and Paul, a younger Paul, coughed into his arm and shuffled on his feet.

"John, I'll clean it up," George said. "I was the one who spilled it."

"I was the one who gave you the shit that made you lose your head," John argued back. "So sit back down."

George didn't want to get in a spat, so he sat back and looked at the tray of tea. One mug was still upright, and George took it.

"George… promise me you'll be more careful with this stuff," Paul begged.

A flicker of an older Paul appeared in George's mind.

"I will," he said. Paul smiled.

John came back in with some towels and soaked up the spill. Paul crossed over the room and put on a record to fill the silence, and soon, it was as if the past half hour had never occurred.

George finished his drink and put it down, letting his arms rest against his side. As he did, he felt something solid in the outline of his pocket.

He reached in and pulled out a small scrap of paper, the size of a note card, folded in half. George opened it to read:

_ It was nice to get to see you again. I just have one favor to ask: cut down on the smoking, will ya? _

_ -Paul _

Against his wishes, he smiled. 

"Hey Paul?" George asked.

"Mmhmm?"

"You wanna get some lunch?"

Paul's eyebrows drifted up, finding the idea of George spending time with him to be shocking.

"I'd, well, that sounds lovely," he stammered. Even if he thought it odd, George could see how the corner of his lips tugged up.

"When did you two get so chummy?" John grumbled as he picked up the soggy towels. 

"We always have been," Paul said.

"Always will be," George finished.


End file.
